


Within Reach

by DaharMaster



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Forsworn, Gen, Markarth, Pre-Skyrim History, Reachmen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8608510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaharMaster/pseuds/DaharMaster
Summary: Based loosely on the book "The Bear of Markarth", this provides a backstory for what really happened, how Ulfric Stormcloak came to rule Markarth (albeit for a short time), the origins of the Forsworn, and much more. It mainly focuses on Ulfric's siege on the city of Clochdyn, the Reachman name for Markarth, and how Madanach and the Forsworn became who they are.
This does not paint a pretty picture in the least of Ulfric, so Stormcloaks beware.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a fic I wrote around three years ago and never published. It still needs some editing, and my style has much improved since writing this, but I figured that since I'm a very slow editor it'd be best to share it now as it is and edit it after publication than to wait to publish it until it is all edited as that will be a very long time in the future, if it ever happens.
> 
> Point is, please excuse errors or rookie mistakes. I promise I've gotten better!

_ "I was there. I was there when the kingdom fell. I saw the embers of their fires, the blood on their blades. I heard the screams of the women, of the children, of the men. I was there when it all came crashing down, the ashes swirling about me, the blood pouring from my wounds. I saw what they did. I saw the killing, the torture, the rape, the murder. I saw it all. I felt it all. I was a boy, no more than a few winters old. I survived, but part of me died that day." _

-Conniach, Forsworn Cell Leader


	2. The Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in a free Reach.

With the messages sent, it was just a waiting game. It had been months, but politics moved at a snail's pace. They had sent the correct treaties and messages to the correct officials, but it was just a matter of patience. Patience, fortunately, was something Madanach had in great abundance. The Reach would be its own kingdom, independent, but still paying tribute to the Empire as a whole. As long as the blasted Aldmeri Dominion kept their noses out of it, The Reach would be a land of peace and prosperity.

Already the people were glad and prosperous. Farms were flourishing where they could and festivals were held regularly. Only two years after their bloody conquest, the Reachmen had made great headway, attempting to put the bloody but necessary past behind them. It was a good time to be king. It was also a good morning. Sunlight crept through the stony windows of the keep and out in the valley one could see the mists of The Reach swirling about like a white and foaming sea, obscuring the lower farms and the great East Road.

Dogs barked in the streets of Clochdyn and the sounds of children laughing could be heard. The sun shone down between mountain crags, warming he streets and rooftops with its soft glow. Wandering past the long abandoned mine, Bryden stretched his back and looked around. He was tired and had been laboring since morning, but tomorrow was his son's birthday and he was happy. Before the uprising, he had been a chief of one of the clans, but now that they were a kingdom, he had happily relinquished his title to Madanach.

Of course, King Madanach still asked for his advice and the advice of the other chiefs, but secretly Bryden was glad to be rid of the burden. He was a warrior now, plain and simple, but as there had been peace for the last two years, he spent most of his time laboring and helping however he could. He discovered he had a bit of a knack for construction and woodworking and it kept his body fit and his mind sharp.

He had grown up with Madanach as well, at least to an extent. Their clans had been allies and they had met on several occasions at clan moots. He had always liked Madanach. He had had the charisma to lead a nation even as a boy, and Madanach had always liked Bryden for his honesty and bluntness, especially in later days.

"I am king now," Madanach had said to Bryden, "Few tell me things I do not wish to hear, few save for you."

Walking to the river, he squatted down and splashed his face with the icy glacial meltwater and shook himself like a dog. It was a hot morning, especially for The Reach, and he was sweating profusely. It was midwinter, and it seemed odd for the sun to show so brightly, but he shrugged. It was better to work in the warmth of the sun than the cold of the wind.

Wandering back to the work site where they were erecting a make shift stable, Bryden smiled again. It was a good day to be one of the Reachmen. A crow called out over head and a dog barked in return. They seemed to agree.


	3. The Coming of the Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulfric and his army arrive.

Drums beat in the glens and valleys. Horns blared and mailed boots stomped. Drunan saw them first, the great crowd, running, screaming. It was no enemy, it was villagers. Some were bloodied or burnt, others dirty and disheveled. There must have been hundreds of them, crowding up the East Road towards Clochdyn. They were not the players of the drums, however. The dread tattoo of the drums was coming from much further down the valley. A feeling of fear began to rise in Drunan's throat, like bile mixed with blood. He swallowed hard as the distinctive smell of smoke wafted into the tower.

"Open the gates!" he called. The cry was repeated by the spearmen on the wall and after a moment, with a stubborn croak of bronze and iron, the portcullis began to slowly slide upwards into the gatehouse. Already a crowd was gathering inside the gates, people of Clochdyn who had heard the cries of the villagers. As the weary peasants rushed in, there was a hushed silence. Up close, everyone could see their wounds and the fear in their eyes. Something was happening, something bad, something evil. No one dared speak their mind, but they knew what was coming.

Madanach sat upon his throne in brooding silence. He had heard the drums, smelled the flames, and heard the refugees. He too knew what was coming. When the doors to the halls were flung open and a ragged man with a gash across his forehead was brought in by two of Madanach's guards, he knew what tidings this man would bring. Or so he thought.

"The Nords march on The Reach," sputtered the man as he fell to his knees, "They fly a flag, a great banner, with the head of a bear upon it."

Madanach stood up in surprise. It had always been a possibility that the Empire would not head their pleas for diplomacy and instead attempt to retake The Reach by force, but this was no Imperial legion. Perhaps the old Jarl was coming to retake his ill gotten lands. Madanach's mind raced, following the thousand threads of possibility. Clochdyn was the safest fortress in all of Skyrim, but they were ill prepared. Only two years since their uprising they were still rebuilding and had lost many warriors.

"Bar the gates," he said, solemnly, "Every man, woman and child able to hold a sword shall be on the walls. Reachmen or not, this is our city. This is our land. We will defend it to the last man."

His guards stared at him in shock and he turned to them, anger twisting his face into a hideous grotesque, "Go!" he cried, racing off to his quarters. He threw the doors open and went to the shelf on the wall, taking down his sword and armor. He doubted they would prevail, but in that moment, he knew he would at least give the Reachmen such an end as to be remembered. And, if he could, he would have that Jarl's head before he died.

Out in the courtyards of Clochdyn hundreds of bodies moved. There was more activity than that city had seen in nearly one hundred years. The local Nords and the native Reachmen drew blades in unison. They clasped hands and slapped each other's backs. This was no time for any discrimination. This was their home, equally, and many had grown up together.

Children wailed as their mothers rushed them inside, kissing them goodbye with tears in their eyes as they handed them off to nannies and grandmothers. Drums sounded again, this time much closer and a cry went up from the wall. The farms of the valley were burning. People began to howl and cry, fear and rage forcing sounds out in equal measure. Now was the end, the coming of the Bear, the time of ruin, where either the kingdom of Reachmen would fall or be forever strong.

_ Wumb wumb! _

The drums beat again, but now they sounded just outside the gates. The spearmen atop the walls held perfectly still. They dared not move. They were like statues carved from the very stone of the walls.

_ Wumb wumb! _

Again, the drums beat. A hushed whisper went up inside the walls as a party of men pushed through the gathering crowds. Men and women in equal measure and even many young boys and girls. Some were fully armed and wore chain shirts, some had little more than sticks and stones. The party pushed through them all in silence, parting the crowds without little fuss. Madanach and his guards.

_ Wumb wumb! _

They strode up the long winding stair to the outer wall and stood above the gatehouse. The sight that greeted them was terrifying. It seemed to them a legion's worth of men, perhaps more, stood outside their walls in perfect formation. Spears, archers, shields, swords, axes and hammers glinted along with fine ring mail and plate steel.

_ Wumb wumb! _

"Who calls on Clochdyn? Who comes bearing the banner of the bear, with a company of warriors at his back?" bellowed Madanach from atop the wall.

_ Wumb wumb! _

"I," came a tremendous booming voice. A tall man, taller than any Madanach had ever seen, stepped forward. He was grim of countenance but had the baring and gait of a seasoned soldier. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he bellowed.

_ Wumb wumb! _

"Ulfric Stormcloak of the Bear," shouted Madanach, "I have never heard of you. Why come you here?"

_ Wumb wumb! _

"Markarth belongs to Skyrim!" cried Ulfric, using the old name for Clochdyn. His men cheered and the drums beat madly.

"It is war then you seek?" asked Madanach, shouting to be heard over the sounds of the drums.

"It is your head!" laughed Ulfric, grabbing a spear from a man nearby. He hoisted it and flung it  at Madanach, his aim true. Madanach was quicker, however, quicker in fact than any man Ulfric had ever seen. Sidestepping, he reached out a fur clad hand and idly snatched the spear out of the air right where his heart had been not a moment prior.

"May your gods smile upon you this day, Ulfric, for ours certainly smile upon us." whispered Madanach, stepping down from the wall. His face was grim and ashen, but he smiled at the people gathered around the gates. They were afraid, all of them were. Many had seen combat, but many more had not. They were outnumbered, but perhaps, just perhaps, not outmatched.

The drums stopped their dread beating and all was silent. Madanach breathed.

"Men, Reachmen, Nord brothers..." he began, searching for the right words, "This is not about war. This is not about revenge or vengeance. The men outside this wall are not here to reclaim their lands. None were even born here. They are invaders, conquerors, raiders. But we! We are true Reachmen! Though you may not be of our blood, though you may be Nord, Redguard, Breton or even Mer, you are a soul of The Reach. This is your home! We will not let them take that from us!"

"They may kill us, they may defile our home, but they cannot take our souls! Our souls! That is what makes us strong! That is what makes The Reach what it is! Even if they kill us all our souls will remain here eternally! They will protect, they will defend and they will oust these invaders! By the Old Gods, even in death we will prevail. Now pray! Pray to whatever gods you wish, for no divine, no spirit, no primal force can deny us our home!" he cried, his body shaking with every word. A cheer went up from the Reachmen. It grew and it resounded throughout the city, growing and echoing off every wall.

Outside the gates the cry was deafening and took on an eerie supernatural tone as it reverberated off the mountains behind Markarth. Many of the Nords looked anxiously at each other. They had heard tales of the strange gods and stranger magicks that these savages practiced and this seemed to be one of them.

Ulfric raised a mailed fist and the drums beat again. It was beginning.


	4. The Dam Bursts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treachery and betrayal make way for Ulfric's forces.

Unbeknownst to Madanach, or any of the Reachmen save one, Ulfric had no intention of a long siege. Crudain, a young man of mixed blood, half Reachman, half Nord, was Ulfric's key to Markarth. He had been only barely a man at the time of the uprising and had not carried a sword. As a child he had been teased and tormented for his father was a Nord and he had great disdain for his fellow Reachmen.

They had been kind to him and indeed any outsiders in the last years, but he had been born beneath a starless night and he had a cruel heart, one that did not forgive grudges. How Ulfric's connections had found him and turned him, what bribe they had offer, only Ulfric and Crudain knew. It could have simply been the pleasure of throwing down his people's home and seeing them crushed underfoot.

There was a culvert and an old mineshaft that very few people knew about. It was said the dwarves had originally made it, but people doubted that for it was crude and poorly made. Long ago it had been discovered and blocked up with stones and masonry, but it had been shoddy construction and over the years due to the constant trickle of water down it, it had become week.

Crudain was small and often explored the underground sections of Markarth for he was one of the few both brave enough and small enough to fit. He knew every tunnel, every turn, every hole in the entire city. For a month he had carefully and quietly worn down the blockage. The use of a pick or hammer would have been loud and noticeable so with a file and chisel he had worn down the masonry until he could individually remove each stone.

Now, with all the men at the wall, Crudain waited by the culvert. After a time, two others appeared. They were dressed in poor clothes but brought bundled swords. They were similarly small like Crudain, but had blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Dark stubble adorned their cheeks and as they drew closer they stopped, hissing at each other as they saw the Reachman lurking in the darkness.

"The Bear comes." one whispered down the tunnel. His voice was young and almost angelic.

"And the stag answers." growled Crudain. He could see the two breathe sighs of relief as they scrambled towards him, backs bent under the low ceiling. As they moved closer, things began to make sense. These two were pure blooded Nords, as pure as any Crudain had seen, but they were as small as he, and he was small even for a Reachman. They were boys.

Barely past the age of ten it looked like. In the eerie corpselight of the single candle that Crudain had brought, he saw their stubble was little more than ash rubbed on their faces to give them the appearance of men. He cursed. He was supposed to take the gate house with two boys? Once this was over, if he survived that was, he would have words with Ulfric.

Silently, he handed the boys the armor he had stolen. It was classic Reachman attire, fur and hide, decorated with bone and antler. The two awkwardly put on the vestments in the cold damp space of the culvert and nodded, bundling up their swords in woolen blankets which they carried under their arm.

"Do not speak," Crudain hissed at them, "You sound more Nordic than a Jarl. Keep close to me and do not act until I tell you to." The boys nodded in unison and followed Crudain up the tunnel and into the mine. By the time they reached the surface they were muddy and had many bruised shins, but it now they looked the part more than ever.

It had become a running joke shortly after the uprising that you could tell a Reachman from one of the local Nords by his shins. It had taken them quite a long while to get used to the steep winding stairs and drop offs of Markarth, or as they then started calling it, Clochdyn.

Together the trio slipped out of the mine, looking around anxiously. That part of the city was abandoned, fortunately, with not a soul in sight. Drums beat outside the walls as they hurried over a makeshift bridge and through an alley way. They stopped as boots stamped past at a running gait. Peering around the corner, Crudain swore under his breath. Down the street was the main courtyard of the gatehouse and it was full of people. The only way up to the gatehouse was a staircase to the right or a ladder to the left and both were equally blocked.

They had no choice, they would have to push through the crowd. Being closer to the stairs, they stepped out from the alley and quietly approached the crowd. All backs were turned to them and Crudain coughed a few apologies as he began to push through the crowd. They hardly seemed to notice the three fur-clad warriors making their way to the wall.

Surprisingly, none challenged them or even gave them a second look as they reached and began to ascend the stairs. At the top, Crudain looked over his should to watch the two youths clumsily climb the stairs. As they caught up he stepped into the gatehouse. The youth behind him ducked low into the archway, but not low enough. The antlers of his ceremonial helm caught on the wall and the stag's head fell off, hitting the steps behind him with a loud crack of antlers. All eyes turned on him as the youth spun in dismay. His face was pale with shock and fear which only served to amplify the absurdity of his charcoal beard, platinum hair and blue eyes.

He tried to stammer something, but a man in the crowd pointed and called something he could not quite make out. Crudain would have sworn again, but that required time and breath he did not have. Grabbing the boy by the shoulder he spun him around and drew his sword.

"Sovngarde!" he bellowed. The signal to attack. Frantically both youths drew their nordic steel blades and charged into the gate house. Two men guarded the main gate mechanism and spun in surprise at the shout. Crudain embedded the spiked teeth of his sword into one man's neck. The man toppled to the floor, wailing as blood spewed from his gaping mouth. Wrenching the thorny blade free, Crudain ducked just in time to avoid having his head removed by the other man.

The youths fell upon the second guard and gutted him with their swords, but not before he left a dark gash on one youth's arm. The boy cried out but Crudain could hardly care. This had not gone according to plan. He gripped the wheel of the gate mechanism and began to pull but it would not budge. He could hear a great commotion both from within the wall and without.

"Help me you sods!" he cried and the youths rushed over, gripping the wheel and pulling. A clank and the shriek of metal could be heard beneath their feet and then the mechanism gave way. A steady clank-click resounded through the gate house as they pulled hand over hand.

Outside the walls of Markarth, the Nords were ready. Great timber logs were brought up and were wedged beneath the portcullis as it rose. Spears thrust out at them from inside the gate and rocks pelted them but a shield wall was raised and as the gate rose, so did the spirits of the attackers.


	5. The Feasting of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins and blood is shed.

"Now," bellowed Madanach as the gate rose and the first shield wall marched under it, "Rise now! Men of the Reach! Free men! Free women! Rise and slay!"

Spears, axes, swords and slings met that shield wall but it held strong. Nord steel lashed out and Reachmen fell. The first few moments of fighting were such a blur of terror, gore and steel that none who were there that day could ever say what actually happened. Somehow the defenders broke the first shield wall, but the second pushed them back.

By now thirty bodies lay in crumpled heaps beneath the gatehouse. It was chaos. It was madness. Blood flowed freely and stained the cobbles red. It flooded into the stream and turned it red as well, a froth and foam coming up around the edges, tinted pink. The sound was deafening and light glinted off swords and mail, axes and blood.

High above on the domed rooftops, a shadow flicked between parapets. Narub moved like a bird on the wing, soundless as death. While the warriors warred below, he did what he was born to do, he hunted. He had been born in Markarth and this was as much his home as it was anyone else's. The Nord who held this land before had been cruel to him, using him as little more than a slave when he was a boy. He ran away when he was hardly of age and hunted in the wilds for many a year. He was a man now, and had offered his help when the Reachmen had rebelled.

They accepted him, even though he was a Dunmer. They had respected him and held him in high regards after his heroics during the uprising. Now he repaid them. They were his kin, as close to any he had. Now Narub hunted. He leaped a gap and rolled on the brass roof, almost losing his footing as he did so. Gripping a stone, he swung his legs up onto the apex and crouched. He now had the perfect angle.

When three men had emerged from the mine, he had been watching. One had gone in and two had gone out. Most people never noticed Narub, and that was alright with him because he noticed everything. So when more men had come out than had gone in, Narub had noticed and watched. He had already been lining up his shot when their cover was blown and had lost his angle, but now he had it again, the prey in his sights.

The creak of the oaken bow was familiar, the smell of the pinesap and resin of the sinew string, the feeling of fine crow fletchings between his fingers. It was like speaking with an old friend. Crudain was fighting off a man who had charged up the stairs after the gate had opened. Most had been too busy with the shield walls to even think about the traitor. A few had charged them though and slain the youths, but Crudain still lived.

Even as the traitor felled the man and breathed a sigh of relief, Narub exhaled. The twang of the bowstring and slide of the arrow between his thumb ring and bow was all the Dunmer heard, then the beautiful, absolute silence in the split second between release and impact. The barbed iron head tore through Crudain's shoulder and punched out through his chest.

Screaming, the traitor began to thrash around madly. He ran out of the gatehouse bellowing and tripped on the corpse of one of the youths. Tumbling head over heels, he landed amidst the seething mass of bodies below.

"Dead," breathed Narub.

Below however, the battle raged on. Madanach was in the thick of it. He was a young man still and strong, with vigor and spirit. His mighty sword hewed limbs and smote skulls. All around him Reachmen fought and died. The Nords were well equipped, but no steel could beat the fire of the spirits that defended Clochdyn.

Still, they were being pushed back towards the keep. Inch by inch, yard by yard, the Nords were pushing them back. Madanach had hoped that this invader, Ulfric, would have shown himself by now so the two men could meet face to face in battle, but the Old Gods had not granted this wish yet. He felt though that he would meet the Bear before the end.

Bryden was still at Madanach's side and with a long axe and mad grin. It had been two years since Madanach had seen the man in battle, but it seemed he had only grown in prowess. Already he had at least half a score of kills to his name and the battle had only been raging an hour or so. Still, in an hour they had lost a lot of ground. Too much ground.

"Bryden, we've fallen back, we must push them back to the gate!" shouted Madanach and Bryden nodded.

"Uthgart, Drunmir, Foalan, with me!" cried the chief and pulled back. The three men he named were all stout fighters and they followed him without question. Having no idea what Bryden was planning, Madanach rallied his remaining men around him and pushed forward. With a surge of bodies like the swell of the sea they broke upon the shield wall again and again. Suddenly, with the crack of an axe blow to a skull, the shield wall splintered and they rushed in, forming a wedge to break it apart.

A man, a giant it seemed, loomed over Madanach and hacked at him with a heavy axe. Madanach sidestepped and brought his elbow up under the man's jaw then spun, opening the man's chest cavity with a savage blow. On instinct he ducked and brought his blade to bear, parrying a strike by an enemy swordsman. The two traded blows back and forth, the swordsman exhibiting great skill. He would catch all of Madanach's blows with his shield and deal equally furious strikes.

Inspiration struck and Madanach took several steps back. Thinking he had won, the swordsman closed in but was not expecting it when the king of The Reach leaped at him, feet first, planting a firm kick on his shield. The swordsman stumbled back, slipping on the bloody cobbles and sprawled on the ground. Before he could even regain his feet, Madanach was upon him, cutting his throat and spraying the surrounding fray with blood.

Something bumped against Madanach's leg and he spun on it, raising his blade high above his head before stopping himself. It was a boy, clad in simple clothes of the Reachmen. He held a dagger which looked as a sword in his hand. He could not have been more than a few summers old and he looked shaken and afraid, but still he stood by Madanach's side.

"Go boy!" shouted Madanach, "Run!" but the boy would not.

"I've got ta' take me da's place," squeaked the lad and then Madanach recognized him. Bryden's son. The boy, notorious for sneaking about and watching even when he should not be, had likely been watching from somewhere and when he saw his father leave, decided to take his place. How old the boy was, Madanach could only guess, but nowhere old enough to fight. Madanach searched for the boy's name in his mind, but nothing came to him. Before he could further scold him though, his body was forced into action.

Madanach's father had told him when he was young that every man has a "fighting soul" which takes over during battle and it is a better fighter than any man. This was one of those moments. Madanach had not even registered the sword stroke, but found himself knocking aside the blade of a Nord warrior, a blow that would have split the boy's skull.

Desperation gripped Madanach and he threw himself bodily at the man, knocking him down and he embedded his blade in the man's chest. It was then that he realized he was alone. His guards and his men had started to push the enemy back, but one side of the street was still open and Nords were pouring into it. He, and the boy, were the only ones in their path.

Suddenly, over the heads of the storming army, Madanach saw the flashing of swords, the splashing of blood and heard the cries of the dead. A wedge of four men had crashed into the flank of the enemy and were running amok. Madanach saw Bryden and heard his battle cries as he cut a bloody swath through Ulfric's men.

"For Madanach! For The Reach!" cried Bryden, his massive axe cleaving men in twain and ripping through the attacking forces. Uthgart, a local Nord, was behind him, slashing and stabbing with a long blade and a poniard in his offhand. The other two, both Reachmen, were armed with spears and were impaling men as they charged.

Two men broke through the defender's line and charged Madanach and he was forced to take his eyes away from the distant fray. The first man, armed with a spear, rushed the Reachman but was clumsy. Ducking, Madanach grabbed the spear's shaft with his offhand and slammed its butt into the Nord's stomach. Even from two yards away, he could hear the satisfying crack of ribs.

Incapacitated, though not dead, the man fell to the ground. The second one, an axe and a shield in hand, came in more carefully now. Madanach and the soldier circled each other. A cruel scar along the man's jaw line accentuated by the lack of hair growth there caught the Reachman's eye and he breathed heavily. This man was obviously a veteran. However, if he had been wounded once, he could be wounded again. It was the men without scars you had to look out for.

The man lashed out and Madanach dodged, sending in a counter attack at throat level. The shield came up and knocked it aside in one swift moment, followed by a quick axe stroke. Madanach parried and spun, kicking out at the man's legs but he leaped back out of reach.

"You're their leader?" asked the man, his voice heavy with northern accent.

"Aye," answered Madanach, throwing and overhead chop at the man's head which he blocked, "You their catamite?"

The man seemed confused, obviously not being familiar with the word and that was all Madanach needed. He rushed in, sweeping his blade upwards in a diagonal slash. This man was almost an unnatural kind of quick, quick like a Briarheart. His axe caught Madanach's sword and before he could fall back, the man's shield, a Bear's head embossed upon it, impacted the Reachman's face.

Madanach reeled, his vision swimming and his head pounding. He tasted blood and felt the tickle of blood in his nasal cavity. He spat. Blood, saliva and a single tooth hit the ground. Before he could react, the man was upon him. Madanach found himself on his back, the axeman with a foot on his chest and grinning down at him.

"You're dead, Reachman." rumbled the soldier.

"You're ugly, Northman." replied Madanach. The man was about to laugh when Madanach's foot came up, crushing the man's genitals and launching him back nearly a meter. He heard the man's cries as he hit the cobbles hard. Madanach regained his feet just in time to see the lad fall upon the crippled Nord, his wee dagger sticking into the man's throat.

Madanach was horrified. He was no stranger to battle, to death, to killing, but to see such a bright eyed boy commit such an act stunned him. He tried to say something, try to call the boy off, but the dying Nord spat up blood, coating the side of the lad's face. The boy yelled, falling over, leaving his blade in the man's neck.

Clumsily on his short legs, the boy stumbled back towards Madanach, and to his surprise, smiled.

"I saved you." said the boy, innocence still bright in his eyes.

"Aye, you did, lad. You did." breathed Madanach, pausing to catch his breath.

That's when he heard it. A final cry. It was unmistakable. A man makes a certain sound when he is slain, a sound immediately recognizable even to those who have never heard it. Madanach heard it now. He had been hearing it constantly for the past hours, but he recognized this one with a kind of sick horror. Standing up and peering over the crowd, he saw him.

Bryden stood, ashen faced, looking shocked with a sword embedded deep in his chest. On the other end of the sword, was the giant. Fine ringmail, a fur cloak and a fine circlet on his head. Ulfric smiled at Madanach. The King of the Reach knew then and there that he would kill this Ulfric Stormcloak or die trying.

But Madanach was not the only one to hear the cry.

"Da!" cried the lad and without hesitation began to rush towards the fighting.

"No!" bellowed Madanach and sprinted after him. He caught him after just a few yards and scooped him up in his arms. The boy screamed and struggled, pounding on Madanach's arms and chest and kicking him, but Madanach held him fast.

"No, boy," he whispered, "Now is not the time."

A hand touched Madanach's shoulder. It was tentative and he turned quickly on it. The Dunmer, Narub, stood behind him, a short blade in hand. The elf's bow was nowhere to be seen and his quiver was empty.

"We must pull back," urged the Mer, "They have taken the gates. We must fall back to the keep."

"No!" shouted Madanach angrily, "We will take back our city... we will..."

"If you want to throw the lives of your men away, go ahead. If you want to win, pull back." growled Narub, his brow furrowing. Madanach exhaled. For a moment he felt like punching the elf, but he realized he was right. Silently he handed the boy, who had now gone limp, to Narub and turned.

Narub moved silently up the streets with the boy slung over one shoulder. Madanach ran his forearm over his face, wiping some of the blood away and inhaled deeply. He leaped up onto a porch and raised his blade, waving it in the air as he called for retreat. Part of him knew he would never see this street again. Part of him also knew that Ulfric would die by his hand.


	6. Last Stand of the Briarhearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madanach unleashes his secret weapon in desperation.

The retreat was not pretty. They did their best to withdraw systematically, but the Nords were shrewd and clever and slaughtered many with their backs turned. By the time the keep was sealed, only a third of their original force was left. All of them, to a man, were wounded and exhausted, but the doors were barred. Outside they could hear the sounds of the enemy pounding on the doors, but they were dwarfmake and strong as any doors Madanach had ever seen.

He knew what he would have to do. They had limited food. They could not hold out in the keep for long, but it was only a matter of time before Ulfric found a way in. He had hundreds of men. There was little doubt in Madanach's mind that he would find a way of breaking down the door.

He called his lieutenants to him, at least those that were left. Macha, Narub, Cuidhigh and Ota all gathered around him. They were weary, wounded, but they still seemed optimistic. Madanach was not, but they could not know that.

"We will break them yet," he told them, grinning through the blood on his face, "We will push them from here and they will sing songs of us in days to come. Get the Briarhearts."

All nodded in unison though Narub looked somewhat unsure. It was natural. Few outside the ranks of the Reachmen even knew of the existence of the Briarhearts, and even some of the Reachmen did not approve of them. Ancient rituals created them, willing sacrifices giving themselves freely to the age old magicks of the witches. What they became were no longer men. They were neither alive, nor dead, neither man nor beast. They were something altogether different.

Madanach had five. They were forced to keep them secret, but keep them they did. They dwelt in the undercrofts and ruins of the old dwarven city beneath Clochdyn. They caused no one trouble, but they were dangerous and at times difficult to control. They wandered the underhalls ceaselessly, without sleep or food.

But they fought like demons.

While Madanach rallied his remaining men, his lieutenants fetched their secret weapon. Just as he was telling the last defenders of his plan, they arrived. From a distance they seemed like men, clad in the typical war dress of the Reachmen, but as they came closer it became obvious that they were different. Their skin was of pale and sickly pallor, like the flesh of the dead and on their chest pulsed a piece of heartwood, overgrown with bark, where their hearts had once been.

They made no sound as they walked, but as the defenders grew silent, the sound of the Briarhearts' heavy breathing filled the hall. They filed in and stood perfectly still before Madanach. They each held a weapon and each weapon glowed with a strange light.

"Briarhearts," spoke Madanach, addressing them, "We fight for our lives and our homes. Kill all intruders."

In unison, the Briarhearts knelt and slapped their chests with clenched fists, creating a hollow thump like that of a skin drum. The defenders shivered and shook themselves violently even as the Briarhearts stood and took their places in front of the great bronze doors.

"Listen!" hissed Narub suddenly and the hall fell absolutely silent, save for the rhythmic breaths of the Briarhearts. At first Madanach could hear nothing, but after a moment he began to hear a pounding on the door. It was not the pounding of a ram, or of fists and it came at different intervals.

"What are they..." asked Macha, the only female amongst Madanach's trusted warrior cadre.

"Shhh!" hissed Narub, "Listen!"

They listened again with baited breath. Narub crept carefully towards the door, bravely even pushing past two of the Briarhearts. He practically had his ear to the door. No one could hear the pounding any more, but Narub's brow furrowed and then his eyes shot wide open.

"Crackling... embers... fire!" he cried, springing back from the door, "They're burning it down!"

Some of the defending force laughed. Narub was somewhat of a joker at times and many falsely regarded him as a fool. Even Nords would not be stupid enough to burn down a bronze door, such foolishness was only ever spoken of in children's tales. Not even dragonsfire could melt that much bronze.

There was silence and Narub seemed to still be listening. After a moment he hurried back to Madanach and took him aside, away from even the other lieutenants. Madanach frowned and looked back over his shoulder to his men as he was led away.

"They will weaken the door with fire, and then they will knock it in," hissed the Dunmer, "We will be outnumbered and outmatched. We will lose Clochdyn, but we cannot lose you, Madanach. There is a way, out the last tower and up the cliff. I can take you, but we must hurry, we do not have long now."

"Never," growled Madanach, "I will not abandon my land... my people... to these savages."

"If you die here, and you will be lucky if that is your only fate, then all The Reach will fall and your men, even if they do live to see the dawn, will never be able to retake it. You are the key, Madanach, without you none of this would have happened." said Narub. He was solemn and Madanach knew he was right. Madanach also knew he could not leave. Not with Bryden left unavenged.

"No." was his only reply and he turned from Narub, who looked crestfallen, and turned back to his men.

"My Reachmen!" he bellowed, filling the ancient hall with his voice, "This is not the end!" The assembled host cheered and pounded their chests.

"We will prevail!" he lied and there was more cheering. "We will strike down our enemies and they shall rue the day they stepped foot in The Reach! Our homeland is under attack, our way of life is under siege, our very gods will be forsworn should we fall this day, but we shall not!"

A din filled the hall and such was the cry that went up that even through meters of stone and bronze, the assaulting force could hear it. The very walls of Markarth in fact seemed to tremble. Ancient dwarven architecture seemed to quake at the very noise the Reachmen made. If the Reachmen's gods could hear it, they would have smiled.

Then came the ram. How Ulfric's men had uprooted a tree to large, only they knew, but with sheer brute force it had come unstuck from its home in the soil of the earth. It was massive, mighty and as long as twenty horses. It took most of Ulfric's force to even lift it.

As smoke sifted through the miniscule cracks in the door, Madanach's men exchanged wary looks. It seemed to them that the doors were glowing, and the cracks certainly emanated light. Those closest to the doors could feel the immense heat on their faces and marveled that the Briarhearts still stood there, stoic as statues.

A deafening roar, a cataclysmic sound like the very earth being torn asunder bellowed in the deep halls. The ram had struck. For a moment, the defenders were hopeful, the doors seemed not to have budged. Then it struck again, louder this time. To their dismay, the doors buckled inwards, bending and contorting so that they could see flames licking the mighty portals.

When it struck again, they were all blinded. Flames roared up around the door frame and the brass dwarven doors flew from their hinges, sliding across the stone floor with alarming velocity. Somehow, the Briarhearts remained unscathed and stood there as if nothing happened. Then to even Madanach's surprise, they stepped forward.

Wading through flames and embers like water they moved in unison, the fire licking and charring their pallid flesh. As they stepped further into the fiery maelstrom, the dark smoke obscured them from view and the defenders lost all sight of them. But they heard them.

A feral howl, inhuman and unnatural sounded from the smoking doorway. The frontlines of the Nords looked at each other with fear and took a step back as the howl transformed into a shriek and a scream, five voices in a singular crescendo. Then all was silent.

"Charge, fools! Take back what belongs to Skyrim!" came Ulfric's booming voice and the front lines warily marched into the blinding smoke.

The sounds of dying men, of ripping steel, of snapping bones and burning embers resounded and then stopped. Nothing moved, nothing stirred, not a sound was heard.

"What devils do these savages conjure to face us?" breathed a man on the front line. Unfortunately, he got his answer.

Stepping from the smoldering remains of the great bonfire, the Briarhearts cut into the frontlines like a knife through scrib jelly. Blood, gore, ichor and screams flooded the steps to the hall. The Briarhearts moved like dancers, swaying, twirling and suddenly straightening and lashing out in some disjointed movement. Men fell before them and piled up around their feet, and still they fought.

A sceld-trome of spearmen forming a tight phalanx burst through the front lines, pushing their own men out of the way and the Briarhearts fell upon them, but these were veteran warriors. Their mighty shields deflected all savage strikes against them and then in unison they lashed out. Spears pierced charred flesh, but the Briarhearts did not seem to notice. They hewed and chopped and broke through the wall of shields surrounding the spearmen, falling on them like beasts upon prey.

Then the drums beat. And the Nords charged.

The Briarhearts were outnumbered fifty to one, but if they could feel fear, they did not show it. Shields and pikes pushed them back and with their back to the flames, they stood fast. Axes swinging, swords slashing, clubs crushing. One Nord got a lucky shot in and lopped a Briarheart's arm off. Something thick like tree sap oozed out and congealed almost immediately. The Briarheart seemed not to notice or care and fought on.

Another lucky blow took one's leg off and then another took a third's head clean from his shoulders. They were weakened now, but they fought on. This could not last however, and the Nords knew it. With renewed vigor they pressed them and finally broke them, falling upon them in great number, the prey becoming the hunters. And so the Briarhearts died, or did whatever Briarhearts do when defeated, for they were not truly alive.


	7. A New Regime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madanach and Ulfric face off in single combat and the fate of the Reach is decided.

The battle that raged when the Nords broke through was so fierce, so brutal, so savage that none who were there that day, Nord and Reachmen alike, have ever slept soundly since. This was not the kind of battle where glory is won, where heroes are forged, the kind that bards sing of in warm taverns. It was the kind that wakes a man up at night, screaming, with visions of his brother's head in three pieces at his feet, with the smell of burnt guts in his nostrils and the taste of fresh blood in his mouth.

But in the midst of it two titans clashed. One with axe and mail, the other with sword and fur. Their contest was so furious that others gave them a wide berth on both sides. It was then, that fate struck.

"Cease!" bellowed Ulfric, "Cease your fighting!"

There were few that could disobey his voice, but those that did could not disobey Madanach's which cried out the same in turn. It was silent in the great hall as the two men approached each other. Madanach was dwarfed by Ulfric, but to any present it was obvious they were peers in battle.

"Speak your words, Nord." spat Madanach as he approached, though still keeping his distance.

"I have lost many men, and you have lost even more. Your force dwindles, but we reach the end of our conflict." boomed Ulfric, smiling.

"Is that all you have to say?" snapped Madanach.

"You are honorable, Reachman. Fight me in single combat. No man may interfere. We shall decide the fate of this battle with us alone." Ulfric cooed. Madanach chewed his lip for a moment.

"If I win, will your men leave this place? Will they take no prisoners, no prizes? Will they leave us in peace?" asked Madanach bluntly.

"You have my word, and the word of a Nord is more binding than iron. If I win, will your men lay down their weapons and surrender?" asked Ulfric.

Madanach looked at his men. Perhaps thirty were left, forty if he was lucky. Ulfric had five times as many if not more. Narub was there and he nodded. Macha nodded as well. Madanach swallowed hard and turned to Ulfric.

"I accept," he said, "You have my word."

It is said that only when men have met in battle can they be considered brothers. If this is indeed true then the world has not seen more bonded brothers than Ulfric and Madanach. With the challenge issued, Ulfric charged in, his axe swinging wildly. Madanach was too quick and ducked low, rolling to the side in a crouched pose then springing upon the Nord.

Ulfric whirled and knocked Madanach aside with the handle of his great axe, sending the Reachman crashing to the floor. He recovered quickly and circled Ulfric, wary now. Ulfric lashed out, gripping his axe with one hand near the butt of it for maximum reach and Madanach leaped back, but not quick enough, the very edge of the blade nicked his chest and he cried out. The hall was silent, the Reachmen and Nords watching with equal tension.

Madanach suddenly charged in and dropped to his knees unexpectedly, Ulfric moved to block the original attack but missed as Madanach's blade ripped into the Jarl's calf. Ulfric bellowed and kicked out with his uninjured leg, sending Madanach reeling as he broke the Reachman's already injured nose.

Ulfric took a hesitant step forward, readying his axe and Madanach came at him, swinging his blade so swiftly it was hardly visible. Ulfric's axe caught it, however, and threw it aside. The teeth of the great blade stuck fast on the axe's head and it came free of Madanach's hands. Seeing his doom, the Reachman did the only thing he could. He leaped.

Like a khajiit, Madanach jumped at Ulfric, gripping the Nord's axe with his own hands and sending the large man to the ground. The two rolled and tussled, the axe becoming a point of contention. One would get the head close to the other's neck and then their grip would give and they would switch places. The onlookers watched, not even daring to breathe. Suddenly Madanach kneed Ulfric hard in the stomach and he doubled over.

With great agility, the Reachman rolled up and onto Ulfric, pressing the axe into his neck. Ulfric fought it as best he could but blood welled up against the blade. Madanach smiled. Then Ulfric spoke.

Only Ulfric knew what he actually said. To the others, including Madanach it was the sound of a roaring river meeting and mighty wind. It was a tongue so ancient few men even knew of its existence. It was a legend born in the voice of Ulfric Stormcloak. It was the Thu'um.

Madanach flew backwards as if hit by a mighty hammer and sailed through the air. He impacted a mead bench which splintered under him and lay motionless on the floor. The Reachmen gasped and a few cried out then silence gripped the great hall. Ulfric stood up shakily, running a finger across his throat and inspecting the blood on its tip.

A shaky gasp escaped Madanach's lips and all eyes turned to him. A leg twitched, then two fingers, then he blinked. Ulfric approached him, axe in hand and looked down upon him. Even to an untrained eye it was obvious the man was broken. He would live perhaps, but he would not be able to even stand for many months.

"Do you yield?" asked Ulfric quietly.

"No," coughed Madanach through cracked lips, "Finish it." Ulfric knelt beside the Reachman and smiled. He picked the crushed king's hand up and kissed it, mocking the motion of swearing allegiance.

"No." replied Ulfric.

What conspired next, no man will find in any history book. The Reachmen, true to their word, laid down arms, and surrendered. They were lead into the mine and boarded up. Ulfric ordered all their leaders, everyone, Nord or Reachman, who held any position to be brought to him. He also ordered every healer that could be found to be brought to him.

The healers labored for days over Madanach's broken body and when he could sit he was brought, naked and chained to a chair, to his old throne room. Ulfric sat languidly upon his throne and laughed as he was brought in. On the opposite side of the room knelt every official, lieutenant and chief that Ulfric could find. It was not all of them, but it was most.

One by one, Ulfric ordered them executed. Some were flayed, others simply beheaded. Madanach watched as his friends, his brothers, his sisters died. He cried, though he had not done so since he was a babe. When it was finally over, Ulfric motioned the doors opened and several women and a handful of men were brought in as well. Madanach recognized many as the peoples of Clochdyn. Some had fought, but many had not.

Ulfric approached Madanach and whispered in his ear, "Tell me, Madanach, who else were your officials?"

"I will tell you nothing." spat Madanach in a hoarse voice and Ulfric shrugged.

"Very well then." the Nord answered.

Again, he forced Madanach to watch as his people were tortured, killed and raped. All were asked for the names of officials, of generals, of soldiers in Madanach's army. One by one, they cracked and told Ulfric's men the names of one or two. This went on for two days, Madanach being brought out to watch every time. Ulfric watched too, though he seemed bored with the whole affair by the end of it.

On the third day, twenty men, women and children were brought into the throne room. Each had raised a sword and though half were local Nords, Madanach wept again as all were put to the sword. If the floor of the throne room of Clochdyn had not been stained by blood from the fighting, it was certainly stained by blood now.

Two things gave Madanach hope, however. In the three days of tortures and executions, he had seen no sight of Narub or the boy. He hoped that they had made it to safety, perhaps even taking the route Narub had suggested. It was all that gave him hope, but even in spite of this, Madanach felt as though if given the chance he would take his own life.

There is no shame greater than to fail your people, your home and your friends. The weight that was left upon Madanach's shoulders hurt him more than his injuries. Finally, Ulfric came to see him in his guarded quarters.

"Come to finish it?" asked Madanach as Ulfric entered.

"In a manner of speaking," said Ulfric, "I've taken your precious city, but I am merciful. You will be free to live out your days in the mines."

"I would rather die than live to see you rule this city." spat Madanach.

"But this will be a free land! Free for all the true Nords who it belongs to! At least now that it has been cleansed of your kind." whispered Ulfric and that was the last Madanach ever saw of him. Later that day he was brought outside and moved to the mines.

Fresh air felt good on his body, but the destruction he saw shocked him more than anything he had seen yet. Even when they had taken refuge in the keep the city had not been so destroyed. It seemed to his eyes that Ulfric's men must have further sacked the place even after victory was attained.

Unfortunately, Ulfric had one final humiliation to inflict on Madanach. He was dressed in the rags of a peasant and paraded about the city like a trophy before being brought to the mines. Throughout the ordeal, Madanach's face was stony and solemn. His eyes looked off into a horizon only he could see and he seemed almost dead.

As they neared the mines, Madanach looked up to the walls and began to weep again. There, on a high banner post, hung the flayed and limp body of a Dunmer. It had been hung there like the skin of an animal and was unrecognizable, but there had only been one Dunmer in The Reach.

Madanach was thrown in the mine. No other prisoners were there and he was left in silence. He pulled his haggard and injured body along the dirt and found a niche in which to sleep. He drifted off to an evil sleep but awoke at the sound of a voice. It was not a thick Nordic voice, nor even the voice of a man.

"I saveded you," said the voice, "I brought you this."

Madanach opened his eyes. The boy stood in front of him, an apple in an outstretched hand. The king in rags shook his head, trying to clear the apparition, but it persisted. He reached out and took the apple. It was real. Only then did he become aware of how long it had been since he had eaten. The boy smiled timidly.

"How did you get in here?" asked Madanach, bewildered. The boy pointed to the ceiling of the mine. Through a tiny crack, Madanach could see moonlight. It was hole just big enough for a small child to fit through and likely hidden from sight. Madanach shook his head again in disbelief.

He was alive. Injured, yes, but that would heal. He would heal. Ulfric had made a mistake, he should have killed him when he had the chance. Looking the boy in the eyes, Madanach managed a smile, "We'll have it back, lad, have it all back. I'll find a way out of here somehow."

He finished off the apple, sucking the last of the sweet juice from the core and discarded it.

"Tell me, son of Bryden, what is your name?" asked the King in Rags.

"Conniach." answered The Boy, timidly.


End file.
